


good and right and real

by byesexualniall, NarryMyBed



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, and the side lilo friendship that we all deserve, boys in the bahamas, louis works at a restaurant and liam's the only one with an iota of sanity, mostly rainstorms and humidity and golf carts tbh, niall's a caddy harry's an international pop star
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 13:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19318894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byesexualniall/pseuds/byesexualniall, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NarryMyBed/pseuds/NarryMyBed
Summary: A year and a half ago, when Niall signed a contract and up and moved to the Bahamas, he thought he was starting a golf job. He imagined hours and hours dicking around on the course, caddying during the day and playing at night, getting drunk on the beach, learning how to surf, and never being cold ever again. He learned quickly, though, that caddying for the rich and famous (and the rich who think that alone makes them famous) is an acting job more than anything—and he’s learned, just as quickly, how to become just about every kind of person under the sun, depending on what his client wants from him. He’s good at it now, being anyone but himself.And that’s why he keeps his mouth shut and maintains his distance while Harry Styles and his manager Liam take 18 holes of golf so slowly that Niall worries he might fall asleep standing up.--or; Niall and Louis work at a resort in the Bahamas, and pop superstar Harry Styles shows up out of nowhere. Heartbreak ensues, or something like that. Happy summer!





	1. this is the start of something

1.

Someone’s coming. Louis asks if he’s heard and Niall swats him away like a mosquito, because he’s got things to do, and someone is always coming. If he heard every time someone was coming, he’d never hear anything else.

But Louis doesn’t let it go—he finds Niall later that morning, when Niall’s sitting in a golf cart out in the middle of the course, iced coffee in between his legs, staring out to the edge of the horizon, eyes locked on nothing in particular. It’s early, still, before 6am—Niall likes to get out in the morning before the guests come for the day when he can, likes to take a moment to himself on the course, all the space around him, the whole world unfurling before him. It’s a moment just for him and the Universe, until Louis interrupts it.

“Have you eaten yet?” Louis is jogging up the course. The sun is rising still, peeking out over the hill in front of Niall, illuminating Louis from behind so he looks like a renaissance painting of Jesus or some shit, a halo of early morning sunlight turning him ethereal. “I brought bagels.”

And he has. He holds the paper bag up over his head, Niall can hear it rustling as Louis gets closer, closer, closer, until he’s climbing into the golf cart, a torrential hurricane, shaking the whole cart despite his tiny size. “Cream cheese or butter?”

“Cream cheese,” Niall shoves his hand into the bag, fishing around for a packet of it. “You should know me better than to ask.”

“People change, Niall,” Louis kicks his feet up, resting them over the edge of the cart. “Maybe you woke up horny for butter.”

“You’re disgusting. Do you know that, Tommo? You’re truly disgusting.”

Louis smiles around a bite of bagel, though, cream cheese clinging to his teeth, eyes crinkling, and Niall feels a lift in his chest, a light, morning breeze gently rushing through his hair. It’s not so bad, always, when Louis interrupts.

They eat in silence: just them, the birds, and the quiet hum of a lawnmower somewhere else on the course. Niall knows the chaos will set in soon, when guests start waking up and the sun starts working harder, but for now, in this moment, it’s nice. And he’s okay. Just him, the Universe, and Louis.

“So,” Louis breaks the silence once he’s finished his bagel, balling up the paper it was wrapped in and dropping it back into the bag. “Did you hear who’s coming?”

“I heard you chatting shit this morning. What’s the big deal?”

Celebrities are always coming to the resort, is the thing. When Niall first interviewed for this job, a year or so after graduating from uni, alone, drifting, unsure what he wanted to do next, they asked him how he would handle being in close proximity with the rich and famous on a daily basis. When he signed his contract a week later, the rules were clear: no asking for autographs, and asking for a picture would get you fired on the spot. Treat them better than other guests, but don’t talk about their work. Leave them alone. Tell no one.

And it’s easy, for the most part, Niall’s found, ignoring the celebrities. He’s snuck photos here and there where he could—Gary Barlow for his mum, Eric Clapton for his dad, Messi for himself—but he’s good at minding his own business. Always has been. So it doesn’t make sense, this: Louis in the kitchen of their shared flat this morning telling him that some big name is coming today, Louis asking him now, again, if he’s heard. There’s no one who could surprise Niall anymore, really.

“The big deal,” says Louis, pausing for emphasis, letting the morning heat up around them, “is that Harry Styles is coming.”

And that’s not what Niall was expecting.

At all.

“Okay,” he raises an eyebrow at Louis, “and?”

“Mate. Harry Styles.”

“Yeah, I know who he is, you wanker. Why do I care that he’s coming?”

“He’s a terror,” Louis says, and Niall can tell he’s getting excited. There’s nothing Louis loves more than some good gossip, except, maybe, a night out watching the football. But this—a 20-something pop star with a brutal mean streak—this is the kind of crap Louis lives for. Like reality television, but in his real life. “Everyone who’s ever worked with him has said the same thing. He’s supposed to be fucking miserable, a whole entire dick. Like, spitting on his assistants, sleeping with his manager’s wife, leaving his trash everywhere, not tipping, that kind of shit. He’s coming in this afternoon, and he’s booked a suite through the end of August.”

“Three months?” Niall’s got cream cheese on his hands. “Seems like a long time to be away from his work.”

“Doubt anyone wants to work with him anymore,” Louis is relishing in this. “I’ve heard he’s really fucking awful.”

“Well,” Niall finishes off his bagel in one big bite, wipes his hands on his knees. It’s hovering in the low 70s this morning, practically freezing for the end of May in the Bahamas, and he’s got goosebumps on his legs. Niall can’t remember, sometimes, how he survived living in Ireland for 22 years of his life. “Thanks for that profile, US Weekly. How much do I owe you? For both the bagel and your celebrity gossip expertise.”

“On me,” says Louis, “but, can you drive me back down to the clubhouse? I have to be at work in 15.”

##

It’s nearly 8pm by the time Niall’s done for the day, cheeks red from hours of caddying and running around in the clubhouse, hair sweaty and stringy where it’s stuck to his forehead underneath his hat. He’s fucking exhausted, body heavy, back tight, hoping Louis will already be asleep by the time he gets back to the apartment, won’t want to chat his ear off about whatever trouble he got up to in the restaurant today. It’s rare that Niall spends a full day on the course, 5am to 8pm, and he’s feeling it, now, when his boss turns the corner and raises his eyebrows at Niall, stopping him in his tracks. He looks just as tired as Niall feels.

“Don’t take your hat off,” Mark says, “you’re not going anywhere.”

Hand in the air, a quarter of the way to his hat, Niall freezes. “Why the fuck not? I’ve been here since 5.”

“Back on,” Mark nods his chin up toward Niall’s cap, “someone’s coming.”

“Last tee time is 4, who the fuck is—”

“Thank you for waiting for us,” the voice comes from the backdoor of the clubhouse, Niall’s head snapping up to follow it. Niall’s never seen him before, the guy the voice came from, all short brown hair quiffed up at the font a bit, bushy eyebrows and a fair amount of beard crowding a warm, welcoming face. His eyes squint so much they almost disappear when he smiles and steps forward, holding out a hand to shake. “Liam Payne,” he says, to Niall. “I really appreciate this. I know you’re not usually open this late.”

Shaking Liam’s hand, Niall tries to catch Mark’s eye, to get any kind of a semblance of who the fuck they’re staying open this late for. He gets nothing, though—Mark is avoiding eye contact like the plague, while Liam is doing exactly the opposite, big brown puppy dog eyes boring into Niall’s as he shakes his hand. It takes Niall a little too long to realize he’s waiting for an introduction.

“Niall,” he finally says, “Horan.”

“Nice to meet you,” Liam steps back and smiles. “Mark says you’re the best of the best when it comes to caddies. I think we’ll need that, neither Harry nor I are really any good.”

Despite the flush creeping up his neck, Niall doesn’t have enough time to unpack Mark calling him the best caddie at the resort—not when someone else steps out of the clubhouse and onto the course and, oh, of course, suddenly everything makes sense.

Harry Styles is taller in person than Niall imagined. His hair is also longer, past his shoulders, and his legs, too, long, long, longer, than Niall ever could have possibly imagined, from seeing him in pictures and on TV. And it’s weird, because Niall’s seen plenty of celebrities in his tenure at the resort, plenty of people who’ve surprised him and left him starstruck for a moment or two, but nothing, no one, like Harry Styles. It’s like—like he’s glowing, ethereal, jawbone sharp enough to cut the sky open, to tear it so it bleeds purple and pink and blue and stars, eyes green enough to feel, almost, the way they latch onto him, a rush of cold when they sweep away, lips pink enough to taste, to imagine how they’d feel slotted against his own, wet with alcohol and salt and—

“This is Harry,” Liam says, and Niall realizes, with an awkward cough, that he was staring. “Harry, this is Niall. Our caddie.”

He feels like he’s burning up, Niall, the evening humidity sticking to his skin, making him hyper-aware, suddenly, of how his hair is frizzy where it hasn’t healed from the last time he bleached it, of how he hasn’t shaved in a few days, of how there are sweat stains, probably, all over his uniform. He can’t do anything but sweat even more as Harry Styles eyes him over, up and down and back up, once. Harry blinks, snaps the chewing gum in his mouth, and says, “hi.”

Niall feels like he’s on fire.

—

A year and a half ago, when Niall signed a contract and up and moved to the Bahamas, he thought he was starting a golf job. He imagined hours and hours dicking around on the course, caddying during the day and playing at night, getting drunk on the beach, learning how to surf, and never being cold ever again. He learned quickly, though, that caddying for the rich and famous (and the rich who think that alone makes them famous) is an acting job more than anything—and he’s learned, just as quickly, how to become just about every kind of person under the sun, depending on what his client wants from him. He’s good at it now, being anyone but himself.

And that’s why he keeps his mouth shut and maintains his distance while Harry Styles and his manager Liam take 18 holes of golf so slowly that Niall worries he might fall asleep standing up. The sun fully sets by the time they’re on the ninth hole, and Liam and Harry are bickering, a little too loudly, about the correct way to hold a golf club and Niall’s just thinking about going home, going the fuck to sleep, telling Louis, tomorrow morning, how utterly boring Harry Styles really is. He hasn’t even been particularly rude yet, and Niall’s having a hard time keeping himself from yawning in his face.

“It’s like this, Liam, look—” Niall watches through drooping eyes as Harry hikes his hands up the club, one stacked on top of the other, so close to the head that he might as well be holding a hammer. “Right? Niall? Right?”

“Oh,” Niall snaps back into it, as best he can for a man barely awake, “erm, that’s—”

“It’s wrong, see,” Liam says, his eyes crinkling with a smile, “you’re wrong but Niall doesn’t want to say you’re wrong.”

“Why wouldn’t he want to say I’m wrong?” Harry looks—Niall can’t quite place it. It’s somewhere between angry and upset, bordering on confused, and Niall doesn’t mess up like this, usually, with clients. He always knows what to say. “Am I wrong? Niall?”

“He doesn’t want to say you’re wrong because you’re Harry fucking Styles,” Liam laughs. “But I don’t give a shit. Niall, can you please show Harry the right way? This is getting ridiculous.”

“No,” Harry stops Niall before he can even take a step forward, hand out, shaking his head. His voice gets harder as he says, “It’s comfortable for me this way. And I’m winning anyway, Liam. Let’s just keep playing.”

##

Niall wakes up at 1pm the next day, bed sheets tangled up by his knees, skin sticky and humid, his ceiling fan clicking as it works above him. His body is doing that thing where it pulls him back into the bed every time he shifts, his brain heavy and pooling at the base of his skull, so he stops shifting, stares up and watches the fan idly, chest rising and falling.

He hadn’t even bothered to ask for the day off today—had just taken it upon himself, when he left the course a little after midnight, not to set an alarm for this morning. And he’d slept like a log, apparently, doesn’t even remember waking up when Louis left this morning or anything—even though sleeping through that is like sleeping through a hurricane.

Niall stares at the ceiling for a while longer, eyes unfocused on the spinning blades, thinking, idly, he tells himself, about Harry Styles. It had been weird and tense after the club holding incident—after he’d shut everyone down because he didn’t want to be wrong—and it had been long, too, leaving Niall feeling like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Liam and Harry were mostly silent for the rest of the game, as the sun set and the dark settled around them, enveloping the course. Harry’d marched off without saying thanks or even goodbye after the 18th hole, while Liam, at least, had been apologetic enough to slip Niall a $200 tip.

Next to him, Niall’s phone lights up. He reaches for it without turning his head, moving his arms to hold it over his face so all he has to do is refocus his eyes to read: one text from Mark, at 1am, saying “Go ahead and take the day off tomorrow. Thanks for that.” Another from Louis, at 9 this morning, reading: “u not going to work tday lad? Out late with someone last night??”, and the third, the one that lit his phone up just now, from Louis, again, reading: “everyting alrite mate?”

“Ya fine,” Niall manages the text back without dropping his phone on his face, a feat, really, “had t work late last night. Harry Styles came in. WIll tell you tnight”

Louis’ reply is a string of eyeball emojis. Niall tosses his phone to the side, letting his eyes slip shut again, just for a second. He’s got to be back on the course early tomorrow, shouldn’t fuck up his sleeping schedule too much, but having his eyes closed just feels so nice.

Until his stomach gets involved.

It’s been over 12 hours since he ate last, Niall realizes with a start—he didn’t get a chance to have dinner last night, and was so tired when he got home that he passed out without even thinking about it. But his stomach is angry now, rolling over itself with such ferocity that Niall worries, for a second, he’ll pass out as soon as he stands up.

He manages it, though: getting out of bed, throwing clothes on, fitting a hat over his hair, and jogging the ten minutes down to the resort, then the ten more to the cafe near the beach—the quiet one that customers rarely frequent, tucked into a corner behind the cheaper cabanas. He knows everyone there when he steps inside and lowers his sunglasses, waving vaguely around the room in response to the smattering of “heys” and head nods and noises of acknowledgement. There’s something special about it, their little community, the group of them who are stuck here, by choice.

He orders a wrap and two sides of fries, leans against the back wall as Fiona, the older woman who runs the cafe, starts preparing it for him. He’s not chatty enough yet, his stomach still angrily hungry, to hold a conversation with Fiona, even if she does make him feel a little like he’s spending time with his nan. He’ll be sure to come by tomorrow, to bring her a coffee or something, make up for his attitude today. For now, though, he can lean back against the wall and close his eyes while he waits.

But then the bell above the door jingles as it opens, and Niall pries his eyes open to look, canned “hey,” on the tip of his tongue, ready for whoever he recognises walking through the door.

And he does. He does recognise the person walking through the door. But not because he works with them.

The thing about Harry Styles in real life, Niall has already decided, is that he looks utterly out of place no matter where he is. Like he was just dropped here, out of the sky, and is still getting his bearings on how the world works. Like he’s just a little bit different from everyone else—just a little bit further away.

Right now, Harry’s got giant white sunglasses on, circular, like a pair of UFOs over his eyes, like Kurt Cobain but not quite as effortless. He doesn’t take them off as he steps inside and surveys the menu, hands clasped behind his back, red Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned nearly to his navel. Niall can’t stop staring.

Harry notices.

He doesn’t take the sunglasses off, but Niall can see Harry’s eyebrows twitch when he recognizes him. It makes Niall feel weird, like his skin is itching and there’s a rush of heat, uncomfortable but not bad, through his body.

“Hey,” Harry’s voice is low and slow, like the heat outside, like a wave meandering back after it’s crashed onto the shore, “caddie—yesterday—Niall? “

“Yeah,” Niall’s throat is dry, he manages a nod, “Niall.”

“Right,” Harry takes the ten steps from the doorway to where Niall’s standing, all skinny jeans and pointy boots and never ending legs. Niall has to fight himself to look at Harry’s face instead. “What’s good here?”

“Erm,” Niall’s brain isn’t working at its usual speed, he feels like his tongue is thick, heavy, in the way, as he says, “everything? What’re you in the mood for?”

Harry shrugs. His chin is titled up toward the menu board but Niall can’t tell where his eyes are, thanks to the stupid sunglasses. They’re shoulder to shoulder, although Harry’s got a few inches on him, and it’s nice, Niall catches himself thinking, it’s nice feeling smaller next to Harry. He shakes his head, pushing the thought away.

“If you want, like, something healthy, the salads are really good—the Mexican Maba one? I usually replace the romaine with kale.”

“I’m sick of salad,” says Harry. Niall feels, instantly, like he’s done something wrong.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to assume,” he feels stupid, a fifth grader getting caught for passing notes in class. He’s stumbling over his words as he continues, “the wraps are really good, that’s what I’m getting. Nice balance, almost like midway between a burger and a salad, you know? But the burgers are great, too—turkey’s the best, and if you get cheese on it you should go for the provolone because—”

“A wrap sounds good,” Harry cuts him off, “are the fries worth it?”

“Yes,” Niall can say that, at least, with confidence. “They’re the best.”

Harry hums thoughtfully, one hand coming up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. And Niall’s long had a “hair thing,” his friends used to make fun of him for it at school, but that was with girls, always, lush, shiny, brown hair, tumbling over shoulders and collarbones and cleavage, a lingering scent of coconut and girl—but never with guys. Never with pop stars. Never like this.

But just as he’s about to lose himself, to become a puddle of weird, hungry mush and sweat at the feet of international heartthrob Harry Styles, everything is over. Harry walks away just as abruptly as he came over, and Niall’s left with nothing to stare at but the swing of Harry’s hips as he finds himself a spot at the counter and orders a wrap from Fiona.

Niall can’t even be bothered with feeling creepy as he watches, still leaning back against the wall. Talking to Fiona is important enough, it seems, for Harry to ditch the sunglasses—he uses them to push back his hair, flashing a charming smile as he does; Niall watches Fiona flush at the attention, watches Harry lean in a little to place his order, watches, horrified, as Harry glances back at him once more, green eyes flitting over his body, before turning back to Fiona and leaning in again to finish his order. He feels naked, like he’s standing in the middle of the cafe in just his socks and nothing else, like everyone can tell exactly what he’s thinking, exactly how quickly his heart is hammering right now.

And then Fiona is saying: “Why don’t you go wait for your food out by the beach, love? Peter will bring it over, no problem at all,” and Harry’s thanking her, flashing a smile at Peter behind the grill, and then he’s gone, out the way he came, no goodbye to Niall, just a brief whiff of vanilla and the quiet music of the bell as he goes.

Niall feels sick.

He just about manages to pull it together when he realizes his food is done, wandering over to the counter and fishing his wallet and employee ID out of his pocket. It’s a $15 meal that should come out to only $5 with his employee food discount, but Fiona stops him before he can hand her the money.

“He paid for it,” she says, “isn’t he darling?”

“What?”

“Harry Styles. He paid for your lunch.”

“I,” the cafe is spinning. Niall tells himself it’s because he’s dangerously hungry. “Are you sure? I think we got the same thing, maybe—”

“No, he paid for them both,” Fiona looks like she might burst, one hand over her heart, a smile threatening to crack the apples of her cheeks. “He said ‘I’ll take care of his, too.’ He gave me $40 and told me to keep it, how sweet is he? I have no idea why people say such terrible things, such a sweet, sweet boy. Are you friends, Niall? How does he know you?”

“No,” Niall jostles his bag of food, warm in his arms, “he came to the course last night. I caddied—we stayed open late for him, maybe this was for that?”

“Oh,” Fiona croons again, “how sweet of him.”

“$40 is nothing to him,” Peter pipes up from where he’s stood by the stove, sweat pooling on his forehead. “He probably made $400 in music royalties in the time it took him to hand you that money, Fi. Don’t fall for it. Heard he likes older women, anyway—maybe he’s just trying to butter you up.”

Peter laughs, and so do the few other people in the cafe, and so does Niall, as best he can, with a bone dry throat and a knot in his stomach. Fiona says something about how age is just a number, and Niall has to leave, has to get out, cannot be home fast enough. He barely manages a polite goodbye before he’s out the door, sunglasses down, refusing to look toward the beach as he speedwalks back to his bed.

##

“You,” says Louis, feet up on the coffee table, joint at his lips, “told Harry Styles that a wrap is a nice midway between a burger and a salad? You said that? Out loud? To another human being? To a human being worth $90 million?”

Head in his hands, elbows on his knees, Niall just sighs.

Louis, next to him, isn’t done. “And he still bought your lunch after you said that? Maybe it was pity, mate. You made such a tit of yourself that he bought you lunch so you wouldn’t feel bad.”

“Give me that,” Niall sits up, reaches across Louis for the joint. He’s two hits in, and it’s nowhere near enough. “A $15 pity meal from Harry Styles. He’s gonna do one of them radio interviews where the host asks about his weirdest fan story and talk about me. Make me sound like a proper idiot.”

“You are,” Louis says, “a proper idiot. But. That’s kind of sick, no? You can go round now saying Harry Styles bought you lunch. Perfect for two truths and a lie, that kinda shit.”

“When the fuck am I gonna be playing two truths and a lie? Not in college anymore, Tommo.”

“Dunno,” it’s Louis’ turn on the joint. “It’s a good story anyway. And hey—maybe you’ve a shot. Does he like blokes?”

Niall groans, loud and dramatic, but it gets caught on the smoke in his throat and he coughs up a fit, cheeks turning red, eyes leaking at the corners and Louis is laughing at him, because Louis never coughs when he smokes and Niall always does and he’ll never let him live it down, not until the day he dies. Truthfully, Niall can imagine Louis bringing it up while speaking at his funeral.

“Why do you ask me if every guy I talk to is ‘into blokes’?” Niall manages, once he’s collected himself again. His eyes are still wet and his throat is raw, but he’s shaking it off. “It’s annoying.”

“Sorry, lad,” Louis’ voice softens a bit as he hands what’s left of the joint over to Niall, a peace offering. “I don’t mean any offense. Just want you to be happy.”

“I know,” Niall says, and he does. It’s just. “It’s just—I dunno. I’m doing just fine, don’t need a boyfriend to be happy. But I don’t think Harry Styles likes guys anyway. Doesn’t he like only date Victoria’s Secret models?”

Louis shrugs. “What about that guy he’s been wandering round the resort with? The short hair and all the tattoos. He’s, like, ripped. You’re telling me there’s nothing there? Two fit, rich blokes alone on holiday in the Bahamas, nothing to do all day but be shirtless by the beach… I dunno.”

“That’s his manager Liam, you dipshit. I think this is, like, a work trip.”

Louis exhales smoke. “Thought his manager’s name was Kieran.”

“Why the fuck would I know that? No, wait—why the fuck do you know that?”

“It was all over the news,” Louis’ voices raises a few notches, defensive. “When Harry slept with his wife. Kieran Burgess, I think his name was.”

“TMZ does not count as the news, Tommo.”

“It was on Apple News on my phone, fuck off.”

“You use Apple News? Literally no one uses Apple News. I have never met a human being who—”

“Look,” Louis cuts Niall off by shoving his phone into his face. It’s a TMZ article from three months ago, the bold black headline declaring, “Superstar Harry Styles Beds Manager’s Wife Amid New Album Speculation.” The accompanying picture is one of Harry and a woman he’s never seen before exiting a restaurant, bright paparazzi flashes making them look sleep-deprived and barely human, Harry’s hand coming up to shield his eyes, and the woman’s face, from it all. Underneath, a small caption reads, “Harry Styles exits Carmine’s in New York followed by Ameena Burgess, wife of his manager Kieran Burgess.”

It makes Niall feel icky in a new way, scrolling through the article. Celebrity gossip has never really bothered him one way or another, but something about this—it feels different. He scrolls through quickly, skimming the article, trying to tell himself that he doesn’t know Harry, that Harry’s not his friend, that this millionaire heartthrob of a musician doesn’t need Niall to rush to his defense. But still. Niall passes the phone back to Louis, runs a hand through his hair, reaches out for what’s left of the joint.

“I dunno mate,” he tells Louis, or maybe himself, on an exhale. “I dunno.”

##

The noontime sun is directly overhead, beating down on the back of Niall’s neck where he forgot to slap on sunblock this morning. He can feel the sunburn blossoming over his freckled skin, shifts uncomfortably in his heavy caddy’s boilersuit, shuffles his feet against the freshly manicured grass. He’s standing back and minding his own business as two rich men with New York City accents take the 15th hole, nattering about cars and cigars and sending their sons off to Fordham University, and trying not to pass out. He still feels a little high, the kind that makes him heavy in his limbs and his eyelids, that makes him want to crawl inside himself and melt into bed, into sleep, into someone’s arms.

Niall shakes his head, throws away the thought.

—

By the time Niall gets out of work, showers, rubs some aloe vera on the back of his neck, and changes, it’s 7pm. He’s had two too many long days in a row, well over 12 hours on the course, but Louis is waiting for him, as promised, at La Cantina. He’s not sitting at their usual table in the back, the one directly underneath the air conditioning vent, tucked into a dark corner, set off from the resort guests who usually invade the Mexican restaurant at this hour when Niall gets there, though—instead, he’s sitting at the bar, a Corona in front of him, a smile on his face, Liam Payne sat across from him.

The sight of it activates Niall’s flight or fight response, and he doesn’t stick around long enough to unpack why. He turns around as soon as he takes the scene in, spinning on his heel without looking behind him. And face-planting. Directly into a waiter.

Everything clatters to the floor: a tray of drinks, the waiter, Niall. The whole restaurant turns to look at them and it’s the sound of Louis laughing that breaks the silence first, boisterous and delighted and not at all apologetic, ushering in a few murmurs of “are you okay?” before everyone turns back to their tables and moves on with their lives, barely even waiting for an answer.

Niall is soaking wet.

“Sorry, sorry,” he doesn’t recognize the waiter, must be new, makes Niall feel even worse. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the guy echoes Niall, and they help each other up as someone else rushes over with a broom and a mop to tackle the mess of broken glass and spilled alcohol. The waiter runs off to change and replace the drinks and Niall’s shoved out of the way, soaking wet, until he stops awkwardly in front of Liam and Louis, still laughing.

“You alright, mate?” Liam asks, while Louis snickers next to him. Niall scans his whole memory in half a second, tries to dig up a time he’s ever been more embarrassed than this. He can’t.

“I’m fine,” he drags a hand through his hair. It’s sticky with whatever sugary alcoholic drink was on that tray. “Bruised ego.”

“Bruised arse, more like it,” Louis laughs. “It’s a good job you’re not getting laid regularly, mate, because a fall like that would seriously hinder your ability to—”

“It didn’t hurt that bad,” Niall cuts Louis off in a rush, praying, fruitlessly he knows, that his face hasn’t flushed red and betrayed him. And, really, it did hurt that bad.

“Here,” Liam stands up from his seat at the bar, offering it to Niall. “Sit, I’ll grab another chair.” And he’s gone before Niall can say no, rushing across the restaurant to find another chair tall enough to reach the bar.

“What the fuck,” Niall hisses, leaning forward, trying not to wince at the pain in his tailbone, “is your damage, Tommo?”

“What?” Louis looks genuinely confused and Niall feels a flicker of shame, for half a second, because a joke like that would normally be well-received by Niall, they both know that. But there’s something about this situation, Niall can’t put a finger on it, about Liam being here and Liam being who he is, that embarasses Niall, that makes him uncomfortable, that makes him want to come across as someone who actually has his life together.

It’s like they share the same brain, the way Louis raises his eyebrows slowly as Niall works through his feelings in his own mind, untangling the knot of his thoughts. It all hits Niall at once: a realization, embarrassment, shame, fear, anxiety, annoyance that Louis can pretty much read his mind. He tries to open his mouth, beat Louis to the punch, but Louis gets there first, always does.

“Oh my god,” Louis’ smile is so wide, Niall wants to punch it off his face. “You want to impress Harry. You’re worried about looking like a tit in front of Liam, because you want him to go back to Harry Styles tonight and say nice, lovey dovey things about you. Holy shit, Niall. You’ve got a crush, you fucking idiot, you—”

“No. I don’t.”

“You do! Look at you! You’re bright red!”

“I’m always bright red, I’m Irish. I don’t even know the guy, Tommo. We just found out last night that he slept with his former manager’s wife—why the fuck would I—”

“They had a spare chair in the back!” Liam is breathing heavy when he returns, holding a chair that matches the rest at the bar up a few inches off the floor. He places it a little behind Louis’ and Niall’s, forming a triangle. And it works well, the three of them, the way Liam slots in comfortably and picks up the conversation where he and Louis left it off. No one mentions the fall, or Harry, for the rest of the night. Niall almost slips up and gets comfortable, for half a second.

##

On Sunday, there’s a storm. Palm trees sway, lightning ricochets across the sky, thunder rattles double glazed windows, and Niall sits, in the clubhouse, watching rain fall. All his clients for the day have cancelled, and it’s not like he’s surprised, but he is bored, and tired, and a little annoyed, now that he’s out tips for the day. The place is deserted and he’s on his second pint of Guinness, savoring, quietly, the way rain reminds him of home.

He tries not to think of it too much, home. He left for a reason, after all. But there are moments like this one, when the rain falls just right and the soft smell of wet wood and dark beer mix in a specific way and a Bahamian accent hits him sideways and he feels so far, so far from and so close to home all at once that it overwhelms him, knocks the wind out of him, leaves him shaking and cold and homesick, googling recipes for beef stew and watching Father Ted, as if he ever even gave a shit about that show when he lived in Ireland. It’s all too much, the wave of homesickness that washes over him—Niall reaches into his pocket and fishes out his phone and thinks about calling his mum, has his finger on her contact when the clubhouse door swings open, a rush of wet wind blasts through the room, and Harry Styles stumbles inside.

He’s soaking wet, long hair sticking to his cheekbones and jawline, matted down a little on top. His skinny jeans are plastered to his long legs, and Niall can’t do much to stop the way his eyes trail down Harry’s thighs. A grey t-shirt clings to his chest, too—Niall can see a mess of tattoos along his body, his stomach, his shoulders. He tears his eyes away from Harry’s body, looks anywhere else, glances back just in time to catch Harry’s eyes, to watch as his face lights up with recognition and he makes a start for the bar.

Immediately, Niall feels sick.

“Hey,” Harry sidles up to the bar with no hesitation; Niall wonders, for a second, what it’s like to be so famous that you’re always that sure of yourself. “Niall.”

“Hi,” Niall hopes his smile isn’t coming across like a grimace, the way it does sometimes when he’s nervous. He straightens his back, flattens his palms against his thighs. “Wet out there?”

It’s a stupid fucking thing to say. Harry laughs anyway, dimples digging into his cheeks, lines around his mouth deepening. “Pissing it down,” he says. “It came out of nowhere, too.”

“Out of nowhere?” Niall swallows as Harry pulls out the chair next to him and settles down. “Don’t you check the weather in the morning? This was predicted days ago, mate.”

“Honestly?” Harry’s pulling his wet hair back into a bun, deft fingers moving quickly. Niall looks at the door behind him, so as not to let his mind wander. “I almost never check the weather, it’s... I never usually have to, like? Usually just get driven around everywhere. Weather doesn’t really affect me.”

Niall can’t help the laugh that forces its way out of his nose. When he looks back over, Harry is smiling a little sheepishly, and he feels emboldened, Niall, to say, “you’re so rich that the weather doesn’t affect you? You’re above the weather?”

Harry’s smile grows, Niall’s stomach flips. “It’s a bit mad, I know.”

“More than a bit, mate. I never even thought of being so rich that the weather didn’t matter. I didn’t even think that shit was possible.”

“Anything’s possible,” Harry shrugs. Rainwater is still dripping from his hairline down his forehead a little, but he doesn’t wipe it away. They sit in silence, Niall watching the water meander down Harry’s forehead, until he says, “except maybe getting a glass of wine in this place?”

“Oh.” It’s that easy, slipping back into work mode, into server mode. Niall shakes his head; stupid, of him, to act like Harry was his friend, even for a second. “Let me get Carissa, she’s the bartender.”

Niall finds Carissa sitting in the back with Daniel, the red-headed waiter with freckles and a pretty laugh and he doesn’t have time to unpack that, to fully digest the fact that he’s going to lose a bet with Louis over whether or not they’re dating, because he feels so stupid, so ashamed of himself, so fucking embarrassed. He doesn’t even care that he’s clearly interrupting something, that Carissa is all red cheeks and swollen lips and surprised, wide eyes when he barges in on whatever’s been going on and says “Harry Styles is at the bar and he wants a drink.”

He marches back to the bar behind Carissa, trying not to look at Harry. It’s hard, though, with his stupid shirt clinging to his chest and his jawbone on display and his eyes, greener than green, flicking up when Niall walks by. Harry shifts a little uncomfortably in his chair and orders a glass of Merlot. Carissa gives him a bottle and then she disappears, back to Daniel, leaving Niall next to Harry with half a pint of Guinness to finish, two hours left in his shift, and a thunderstorm hammering down outside.

“You,” Harry coughs, clearing his throat. “You didn’t have to get up and get her for me.”

“What?”

“The bartender. Carissa. You didn’t have to—that’s not what I was asking you to do, I’m sorry if it came across that way. I was, like, making a joke. I would’ve been happy to wait for her to come back from her break, or whatever.”

“Yeah, well,” Niall does his best to ignore the way his face is burning up. He feels even stupider, if that’s possible. “It would’ve been a while. She was back there with one of the waiters. Seemed a little busy, the two of ‘em.”

Harry’s eyes light up and his mouth falls open slowly and he says: “Oh my god, tell me everything.”

Niall, ignoring the swoosh in his stomach, does.

—

They’re two more drinks in each, cheeks ruddy with alcohol, skin warm with laughter, Niall’s shift long over, when Harry apologizes again. His slow, deep voice is slurred a little more now that he’s tipsy but he speaks faster, too, an oxymoron that Niall can’t stop thinking about, that he wishes he could dive right into.

“I’m sorry,” is what Harry says, after a comfortable lull in the conversation. They’d been talking about Derby County, Niall waxing poetic about the times he got to dress up as the mascot as a kid, Harry asking all the right questions. It had been good. Niall stiffens.

“For what?”

“For earlier,” Harry clears his throat again. “For making you feel like I was trying to boss you around, or whatever. I—people always think, when I’m making jokes, that I’m asking them to do things for me. I’m not. I’m really sorry, I just… I’m not as funny as I think I am, and I never remember that.”

“No,” Niall doesn’t know why he feels such a rush to correct himself, to set the record straight, but he does. He feels like a kid, rushing to get the seat next to his crush at a birthday party. “You don’t need to apologize. It’s my job to be bossed around, I just interpreted you wrong, s’all.”

“I don’t want—I don’t want you to feel like it’s your job to be bossed around when you’re with me.”

Despite all the beer he’s had, Niall’s throat feels like a desert. He swallows thickly, presses his shoulders down. “That’s kind of you, Harry, but it is my job.”

“Not right now,” Harry’s got this thing with eye contact, Niall’s learning. Green eyes, boring into him. “You’re off the clock. We’re just two blokes, having a drink.”

“We’re on company property; technically I still represent the resort and you’re a guest and—”

“We should go off company property then.”

“I—what?”

“Can I take you? Off company property?”

“Can you—what?”

“Let’s go somewhere,” Harry says, “where you don’t have to be working.” Suddenly, he seems completely sober.

For all he prides himself on graduating university with a first (barely, he scraped by), and adapting to any situation he finds himself in, and, on the whole, being a fairly independent guy, Niall has never felt more out of his element. He’s never experienced this before, the way he can feel his brain turning over nothing, the way he’s grasping at what he thinks Harry is trying to say, but won’t let himself believe, the way bells are ringing in the back of his mind, headlines flashing, rumors swirling, Louis’ voice echoing. He feels everything at once, so quickly, cycling through thoughts like scenes on a View Master toy. He trips over his own two feet even though he’s sitting down, hears himself from a million miles away as his mouth does all the work and he says, “yeah, let’s.”

—

Harry takes him for a drive. Except he hasn’t got a Range Rover, or an old classic car, like Niall imagined. He’s got a motorcycle. And he expects Niall to get on the back.

Niall says, “I haven’t got a helmet.” Harry gives him his own. He climbs onto the bike and holds it in place with his feet and helps Niall position the helmet properly, his fingers brushing up underneath Niall’s chin, Niall holding his breath so as not to make Harry flinch. Niall clambers on behind Harry, heart hammering, stomach twisting, and then he remembers, or realizes—he’s supposed to wrap his arms around Harry’s middle.

It’s a miracle, really, that Niall doesn’t throw up into Harry’s hair.

Harry wiggles his bum a little, getting comfortable on the seat. Niall slides his hands around his waist as gently as he can, praying that his shaking hands don’t betray him, that Harry can’t feel his heart hammering through his thin t-shirt.

If he does, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns his head slightly, a strand of hair falling into his eye, and says, “alright?”

“Alright,” Niall lies.

He’s been on his fair share of Mopeds and Vespas and little scooters with motors, but Niall’s never been on a real motorcycle before, nothing like this. It’s scary, for a second, he tightens his grip on Harry’s middle for fear that he’s going to fall off and roll under, but then it’s exhilarating, rain-fresh air rushing past his body, lush green trees and bright blue sea and golden carmel wisps of Harry’s hair blurring his vision. And Harry—the muscles in his lower abdomen flexing and tensing when he takes him and Niall and their motorcycle around corners, the gentle plane of his body expansive underneath Niall’s fingers, warm and intimate and welcoming and it’s brand new, it’s exciting, it’s the best Niall’s felt in—God, he can’t remember how long.

They can’t really talk while they’re driving, and Niall’s thankful for it; he can let his mind wander instead, can look at the Bahamian landscape from a perspective he’s never had, never even imagined before. It’s been nearly two years of living here, and Niall’s come to think of himself as something of a local in certain ways—but he can never see everything, can never fit in perfectly, is always looking for new ways to experience The Bahamas, to give it the attention it deserves. And here he is: on the back of Harry Styles’ motorcycle, zipping along cliff sides, seeing everything like it’s totally new.

And it is, maybe.

—

Harry zips them around for twenty minutes before he stops, feet coming down to keep the bike from tipping over. They’re on a side street somewhere and when Niall takes Harry’s helmet off he can smell the ocean, salt stinging his nostrils, humidity clinging to his skin. Harry’s pulling down from the bun, shaking it out, and it feels like one of those cliche high school movies, where the girl flips her hair and the boy falls in love.

“There’s a bit of beach just over there,” Harry gestures ahead of them. “I discovered it my first night here. It’s really quiet—it’s really quiet on the resort, too, but I just feel like people are less likely to be looking for me over here, if that makes sense.”

Niall nods. It makes sense to him, too.

It really is nothing more than a tiny stretch of beach, tucked away behind a few stores, a perfect place for teenagers to come drink without getting caught, to hook up when they can’t go home. And this, Niall realizes, as he toes off his sneakers and wades out to stand ankle deep in the ocean, feels a lot like that.

The sky is a bright, bruised purple with splotches of blue throughout, the setting sun a flicker of gold far off on the horizon. Niall stands perfectly still and lets the water wash over him, back and forth, push and pull, nothing but the sound of waves crashing against the shore and sea glass whistling as the water rushes back. Harry’s next to him, then, his skinny jeans cuffed up to his mid thighs, his hand on his hip.

“Out here,” Harry’s voice is low, like the waves, “it’s like the world never ends, you know. Goes on and on forever.”

Niall hums in agreement. “Home feels like another planet completely, when it’s like this.”

“Yeah. Does.”

It’s just them and the waves, for a minute, until Harry asks, “Home is Ireland, for you?”

“Mullingar,” Niall answers, eyes on the horizon. He’s afraid of what will happen if he turns to look at Harry. “Smack-dab in the middle of Ireland.”

“How’d you end up here?”

It’s the way Harry asks that pushes Niall to answer. The question is a heavy one, a complicated one, messy feelings that Niall still can’t quite untangle, a lump of an answer when people are usually just being polite and expecting something glib like “I wanted a change of scenery” or “I got sick of the Irish weather.” But Harry is soft, he’s malleable, he’s gentle, he’s curious, like he’s pushing back Niall’s hair and letting him take his time. He sounds like he wants to know the answer—and Niall feels like he wants to tell him. It’s been a while, anyway, since he’s talked about it.

“It’s,” Niall sighs. Water laps at his ankles. “Complicated.”

“Everything is,” says Harry.

“I went to uni to study music,” Niall manages, and it hits him then that he’s admitting all of this to a professional musician, but it’s too late. The dam is broken. “Always wanted to be a musician, but I haven’t… I don’t know. I’m just not made for it, I suppose. I auditioned for X Factor when I was 16, even, the first year auditions were open in Ireland. But I didn’t make it. Went to uni for producing instead. I did pretty well, too, interned a lot in Dublin and I had a job lined up after graduation, started right away and I was great at it, work was great, the people were great, it was perfect. And then the studio went bankrupt. And it closed down. And I just—I dunno. I didn’t know what to do with myself, like. I had gotten that job so easily, I was so comfortable there, and I didn’t know what to do next. It was like this huge block I—I couldn’t do anything. Every time I opened up my laptop to apply for a new job I just immediately had a panic attack and I—I just couldn’t do it. I just broke down. I still can’t explain it. Anyway, I had come on vacation here, once, with my family when I was a kid. And my brother was talking about wanting to come back with his wife and his kid and asked me to do some of the research on prices for him and that’s when I saw they were hiring for a caddie. I did caddying all through school and in the summers as a kid and it was so easy to apply, honestly, because the whole thing was so ridiculous and I knew I wouldn’t get it. And then they called me two weeks later. And that was a year and a half ago. And here we are.”

“And here we are,” Harry doesn’t miss a beat. And it’s a good thing, Niall realizes—he’s breathlessly grateful that Harry doesn’t just let that story hang in the air, doesn’t make them both sit in it. He guides the conversation easily, effortlessly, like this actually matters to him.

“That wasn’t all that complicated,” Harry says next. “Just a shitty situation.”

It’s weird, the way Niall feels lighter after saying all that. It’s weirder, still, the way Harry is a complete stranger.

“It happens all the time,” this is the part Niall has memorized, he’s said it so many times. “People lose jobs all the time. The only shitty part was that I couldn’t get my shit together enough to apply for a new one.”

“You did, though,” Harry’s looking at Niall so intensely now that Niall turns to face him, finally. His brows are furrowed gently and the waning golden light from what’s left of the sun is reflecting off his hair. “You applied for this one. You’re here.”

“In a dead end job halfway across the world from my family and my friends, barely able to pay my bills. Yeah, mate. I’m here.”

“It’s better than nowhere,” Harry rebutts, but it’s gentle. “And you’re in one of the most beautiful places in the world.”

“Yeah, I know. Could be worse, could be in a ditch, could be dead. Doesn’t mean I don’t still feel like shite.”

“I know,” says Harry. “The feeling.”

They let that one sit. It sits and they stand until the sun is gone and the water is cold and Harry says, “want to go sit on the sand?” and Niall doesn’t know what comes over him, but he flings out his arm, stops Harry from turning around, and says, “your turn. How did you end up here?”

“I’m on a writing trip. It’s for my next album.” He says it so quickly that Niall knows it’s not true, but he’s smart enough, or stupid enough, not to push it, not to blurt out the shit he’s read in TMZ and demand an explanation. They’re strangers, Niall reminds himself. He may have just poured his heart out to Harry, but, still. They’re strangers.

—

Harry starts yawning at 10pm. They’re sitting on the sand and he’s got his thigh pressed to Niall’s, the fabric of his jeans rubbing against Niall’s skin where his shorts are riding up. The sun is fully nestled over the horizon now, the dark settling around them, humid air clinging to their skin and hair and they’ve been talking about the places they’ve been, how Niall traveled around Europe a little when he was in uni, studied abroad in Sydney, how Harry’s seen the whole world a few times over and it’ll never be enough. Harry’s saying something about Japan when a yawn interrupts him, his eyes squinting as his mouth stretches and it’s endearing, Niall thinks, weird, in a way, how someone so rich and so famous is so normal, yawning unattractively next to him.

“Do you have to wake up early tomorrow?” Harry asks, when his yawn is done. “For work?”

“It’s my day off tomorrow,” Niall says. He’s trying to keep his eyes on… anything that isn’t Harry’s mouth. “Always off on Mondays.”

“What does Mark do without you? He told Liam like twenty times that you’re the best caddie at the resort.”

Niall snorts out a laugh, uses it to cover up the tightening in his stomach. “He manages. There are plenty of other caddies.”

“No other Nialls, though.”

“No,” slow, soft. “No other Nialls.”

“Lucky Mark.”

It’s a fight, keeping his voice light. “He’s not my boyfriend, or anything. Just my boss.”

Harry hums. Niall turns to look at him, and Harry’s head is cocked, just a little, to the right. “No boyfriend?”

Niall’s throat has never felt so dry; it’s like he spent hours eating all the sand on this beach. “Is that your way of asking if I like boys?”

“It’s my way of asking if you have a boyfriend.”

He takes a deep breath, sucks in the humid night and the salt in the air, says, “no.”

“No boyfriend, or no you don’t like boys?”

“No boyfriend.”

Harry hums again; it reverberates in Niall’s chest. “That’s good news.”

“You like knowing that I’m alone?”

“No,” Harry smiles soft, dimples digging into his cheeks. “I like knowing that I can do this.”

When Harry leans in his hand comes up too, and it’s big enough to cover all of Niall’s cheek, his thumb cutting across Niall’s cheekbone and his pinky grazing his jaw. He guides Niall up, up, up, until their lips meet and Harry’s soft, pliant, but in charge, eyelashes fluttering shut, tongue pressing at his mouth. Niall sighs into him and Harry smirks and that’s all it takes—they’re making out right away, Niall shuffling so he can straddle Harry’s lap, Harry’s free hand wrapping tight around his waist. It’s hot and it’s heavy without any interlude—Harry’s hand slides up under Niall’s top and Niall tugs at Harry’s hair, pulling strands out of the bun. One groan into his mouth, and Niall clocks how much Harry likes that.

Harry doesn’t seem to care what kind of sounds he makes or how loud he is, and they snog like that, sand digging into Niall’s knees, to the soundtrack of Harry gasping when Niall bites his bottom lip, humming while he kisses, groaning when there’s a tug to his hair. It’s an overwhelming chorus and Niall feels inspired, for a second, to make music again, because no one, anywhere, is making something that sounds as good as this.

Nothing ever could.

They kiss and they kiss and they kiss, until Niall feels like his lips are chapping and he tilts his head up for a breather. Harry nestles into his neck, kissing and licking and sucking, tiny little bites when he feels like Niall’s neglecting tugging at his hair. This is just as good, Niall thinks, staring up at the night sky, Harry worshipping the freckles on his skin, he could stay like this forever.

—

Forever, Niall supposes, is a lot to ask for. He sneaks back into the apartment at 1:15, the kiss Harry gave him when he dropped him off at the curb still stinging his lips. The lights are off and Niall tiptoes around in the dark, careful not to wake Louis, desperate to get to bed without having to explain himself tonight.

He manages it, falling into bed after brushing his teeth and washing his face and stripping down to his boxers and his eyes are closed before he knows it, limbs sinking into the mattress, breathing regulating, and, despite the warmth in his room and the buzzing in his blood, Niall’s asleep in seconds.

 

 


	2. so it goes

2.

The thing is, Niall doesn’t have Harry’s number. Or his email. Or his—anything, really. He’s got his Instagram, in theory: his public, verified Instagram account with 22.1 million followers and no posts since the end of his last tour, six months ago. He could slide into his DMs there, maybe, could tell Harry he had a lot of fun last night, follow up like he usually does after a nice date. But who has access to that account? Harry, or some social media manager in a fancy, marble office building 25 stories up in London? Would they laugh at him? Would they even see it? And was last night even a date? Or was it just a hookup? They didn’t even fuck, and it’s rare that Niall has one night stands that end without a dick getting involved one way or another, so maybe it wasn’t a one off? But then again, that’s Harry Styles, he probably has to be careful about where he sticks his dick, probably can’t just go around riding everyone who asks. Surely, too many people ask. Surely, Niall isn’t the only one who—

“BAGELS!” Louis is standing on the other side of Niall’s bedroom door, kicking it with his foot. “I GOT BAGELS.”

“Aren’t you meant to be at work?” Niall’s got a headache. He’s also half hard, thinking about Harry.

“Nah,” Louis kicks the door again. “Worked OT because of the rain last night, so I took the day off.”

“You’re the boss, Louis, you can’t just take the day off.”

“I gave myself the day off, then. Do you want a bagel or not you tosser?”

“You can’t just give yourself the day off when you have a whole restaurant to run and—”

“Oh my God, I’m doing you a favor, for fuck’s sake,” Louis is saying, but Niall is laughing, already halfway out of bed, shoving on joggers and a hoodie and flinging open the door to surprise Louis mid-rant, his mouth open, his eyes bright, a bag of bagels tucked under his arm. Niall laughs in his face and Louis laughs too, for a second, eyes crinkling in the corners like they do, until he stops, mid laugh, and his jaw drops.

Niall freezes, thinks something terrible is happening, worries that Louis is going to pass out, but until Louis raises his eyebrows and asks:

“Is that a hickey?”

Niall’s hand flies up to his neck. He doesn’t even know where—Harry’s lips were everywhere last night, all over, every visible inch of him—and it’s hopeless anyway, Louis is already leaning in, pressing his thumb to a spot on the left side of Niall’s throat, laughing at the hiss Niall lets escape into the space between them. Louis presses a little harder and Niall slaps him away.

“That hurts, you shithead.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“Your dad.”

“Oooooh,” Louis laughs, “nice way to sidestep the dead mum thing. Well done, shithead.”

“Louis—”

“So Harry Styles is my dad now? Cool, maybe he’ll bother to give me a call every once in a while.”

“I never said—fuck’s sake,” Niall drags a hand across his face, knows he’s lost this fight already. “I’m sorry, Louis.”

Louis softens easily, though. Niall feels his heart rate calming down as he watches Louis’ face open up, watches, almost in slow motion, as he starts to laugh, to reach a hand out and pat Niall on the shoulder. “I can’t believe,” he says, giggling, “that you hooked up with Harry Styles and didn’t wake me up to tell me.”

Niall exhales deep, relief washing over him like a wave. Like the waves last night, crashing on the shore while Harry tore him apart with his mouth. “I got back late,” Niall says, “after 1. I didn’t wanna wake you.”

“I got back at two,” Louis says, then, “he didn’t come here? Did you go to his villa? What did it look like? Is he fucking that Liam? Oh, did you guys have a threesome? How does that work when—”

“No,” Niall does his best to bite back a laugh. “No to literally everything you just said. Give me a fucking bagel and I’ll tell you everything. Let’s go.”

##

The thing about having a Thing for an inaccessible megastar, Niall learns, is that everyone else does, too. So if he lies awake all night thinking about Harry’s mouth on him, it’s not all that weird, really, because there’s definitely a 22 year old uni student somewhere else in the world doing the exact same thing, at the exact same time.

Except, Niall tells himself, chest heaving, she, whoever and wherever she is, doesn’t know what it actually feels like. And he does. And that’s enough, that knowledge, to keep him up all night, mind racing, blood rushing, body electric.

It’s enough.

##

It’s not like Niall’s never had a crush before. It’s not like he’s never dealt with this messy tangle of feelings before—the wanting, the waiting, the fear, the embarrassment, the excitement of having a crush, of not being able to stop thinking about someone. It’s just that—well, it’s been a while, and he’s an adult now, and his crush is an international pop star with the whole world begging at his feet. And, Niall has to remind himself regularly, before he gets carried away, a penchant for sleeping with people’s wives and terrible reputation that precedes him.

It’s weird, though, the way Harry’s been nothing but nice to Niall. Maybe a little unusual, a little blunt, a little out of practice when it comes to hanging out with normal people, but not really mean. Not sinister. And he even asked—before they kissed, he even double checked to make sure Niall wasn’t seeing anyone.

But still.

Niall’s only known him for less than a month. And he’ll only know him for a few more. So there’s no harm—really, there can’t be any harm—in having some fun when you know there’s an expiration date looming. As long as he doesn’t get attached. What, really, could go wrong?

##

On Tuesday, Niall and Louis are both off, so they decide to go to the beach—as much as “going to the beach” is actually a decision when you live two minutes away from the water. They set up in their usual spot, a corner of beach tucked away at the back end of the resort, where it’s not as luxe, but a lot quieter. There’s a little plastic fence a few feet back, leftover from when they were doing beach clean up after last year’s hurricane, and no one ever bothered to put it away, so guests often think this area of beach is cordoned off, or unsafe. The staff use that to their advantage, making Niall and Louis the only ones on this stretch, towels laid haphazardly out on the sand, soccer ball bouncing back and forth between them.

Louis is tossing around ideas for going home—they take the same vacation, two weeks at the end of September—suggesting they fly together to Heathrow and go their separate ways from there, Louis north to Doncaster, Niall west to Ireland. The idea’s not bad, and something about the thought of going home in just a few months makes Niall’s heart stutter in his chest. He’s built this life, here, for himself and by himself, but he’s been slowly, softly, starting to wonder just how long he wants it to last.

Louis is saying something about checking flight prices tonight, because booking a few months out is cheaper, when Niall notices a figure, some yards down the beach. They’re jogging closer, closer, closer, until recognition clicks in Niall’s mind, at the same time as it does in Louis’.

“Payno!” Louis shouts. He drops the soccer ball and waves, and Niall has half a second to wonder when that nickname was born before Liam is in front of them.

“Hey, lads,” he’s breathing heavy, bare chest shiny with sweat and humidity. “Fancy running into you here, huh.”

“On your morning jog?” Louis asks. He looks happy to see Liam, and Niall has to agree—it’s nice to feel like they have a new friend. Things can get a little stale around here.

“Yeah,” Liam drags a hand through his sweaty hair, a smile crinkling by his eyes. “The humidity here makes it so much harder—I don’t know how you guys do it.”

“Bold of you to assume we run,” says Louis, at the same time as Niall snorts out a laugh. “You should check out the gym,” Louis carries on, “they keep the AC up so high in there it’s like an ice box.”

“I just can’t run on treadmills,” Liam shrugs. “Anyway, these views are too nice to pass up. At the gym I’d just be staring at other sweaty dudes, or, like, watching Keeping Up With The Kardashians reruns.”

Niall knows there’s a joke on the tip of Louis’ tongue, but they both let it slide. Instead, Liam says, “I’m really glad I ran into you guys, actually. Harry’s been asking me if I could get my hands on your number, Niall.”

“I—what?” It’s almost worrisome how quickly Niall’s heart rate skyrockets. Next to him, he hears Louis snicker.

“Your number,” Liam continues, unbothered. “Harry’s asking after it.”

Niall’s gaping like a fish, so Louis steps up, rambling Niall’s number off as Liam enters it into his phone. He gives the warmest smile as they all trade numbers, and Louis, never one to let an opportunity slip away, says, “you know, Payno, you should come out with Niall and I one of these nights. Think your boss will let you off the hook for a few hours?”

Liam laughs. Niall slowly feels his heart settling. “I think I can wrangle my way out of the villa. Maybe you guys can come over, even. It would do Harry some good, I think. I’ll talk to him about it later. But maybe he’ll text you, Niall?”

“Maybe,” Niall manages, around the lump in his throat.

“Brilliant,” says Liam. “I’ll see you lot later, then?”

“Later, Payno,” says Louis, and Niall manages to lift his hand in a wave, too, as Liam takes off jogging past them, right back into his routine as though he hasn’t just thrown Niall’s entire world off balance. Louis jostles Niall’s shoulder, laughing quietly between them, and Niall feels his phone burning a hole in his pocket.

—

Harry doesn’t text Niall that night. Niall tells himself that’s fine. He’s busy. He tells himself the same thing when he wakes up to an empty phone the next morning. And again, the next day on his lunch break, when he checks his phone for messages with shaking hands and a hammering heart. And when he gets out of work a few hours later, tired of working and sweating and thinking about Harry, and prepared for disappointment, the only texts he has are from Louis.

Except for one.

It’s from Liam. Niall swipes it open with shaking hands, nearly shatters his screen on the floor.

 _Hey, Nialler !_ It reads. _Can I book a tee time with you for Harry? I know it’s usually done through the clubhouse, but I wanted to make sure it’s with you and not any of the other caddies ! You have any free slots tomorrow ?_

Niall doesn’t, is the thing. He almost never has free slots—he’s usually booked months in advance. But for this?

 _Payno !_ he texts back, _I can move some stuff around , would Harry be free around 1 tomorrow ?_

Niall can’t move anything around. But he will.

##

It sits in his stomach all day long, the knowledge that he’s going to see Harry. He wakes up an hour before the alarm goes off, showers in freezing cold water to stop himself from thinking about anything other than basic bodily functions, redoes his hair four times, even though he has a uniform, even though he has to wear his caddy boilersuit and resort baseball cap over everything.

He pulls Mark aside when he gets to the clubhouse, explains that Harry Styles’ manager requested him this afternoon, and he needs to pawn his 1 o’clock off on one of the other caddies. Mark doesn’t even question it, and, for the first time since his lips were on Harry’s, Niall briefly thinks that this could be okay.

The morning and early afternoon are tense—Niall’s spiraling, clubs slipping out of his sweaty palms, heart hammering every time someone calls his name, neck flushing when a coworker, in passing, mentions how hot Harry Styles is. Golf is usually Niall’s escape, his time to think about nothing other than the course in front of him, the objective of his game. But today it’s just a distraction, 18 holes between him and Harry, a labyrinth keeping his lips off Harry’s warm, inviting neck.

Harry shows up at 12:58. Niall almost throws up on his bright purple golf shoes.

It’s funny, watching Harry from a distance, now that Niall’s had him. Harry commands the space around him, but it’s like he doesn’t even know it—like he has no idea that the whole world stopped when he opened the clubhouse door, that the conversations that were happening beforehand died in midair, that forks clattered onto plates, that his own heart stopped beating. He’s got his hands behind his back and his hair half up, half down, and his face is kind of closed off, Niall realises with a jolt in his stomach. He knows what Harry Styles’ closed off face looks like, because he knows what he looks like when he’s wide open.

Harry’s looking for him. Niall realises it a second too late, and Hary spots him first. It’s this thing, the way Harry’s face opens up, the way his expression gets lighter, his eyes get wider, his shoulders rise, the whole room weighs less. It’s, fuck, Niall’s stomach cramps in on itself. It’s so gorgeous.

Neither of them say anything, until they’re face to face. Harry’s so tall, Niall feels tiny, helpless, happy, underneath him.

“Hey,” Harry breathes out. “Thanks for squeezing me in.”

Niall’s throat is dry, so sudden. “Any time,” is what he says.

Harry’s so hot, out on the course. Hot from the early afternoon sun, which is high and intense and beating them down, and hot with the way his white shirt clings to his skin, the way his muscles flex when he swings the club, the way his jaw clenches when he concentrates. Niall’s entire body is protesting this unique form of torture, this inability to touch Harry when he’s gleaming with sunlight and sweat and the ghost of his own lips.

Four holes in, and they have a little more privacy, the back of the clubhouse tiny at the bottom of the hill. Harry’s over par already—Niall’s never cared less.

“Did you have to move too much around to fit me in?” Harry asks. He’s chewing gum, Niall can smell it when he speaks.

“No,” Niall lies. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of Harry’s mouth and Niall’s heart does a pirouette. “Ah,” Harry says, a laugh underneath, “I’m only here because I’m easy for you to squeeze in.”

“Yeah,” Niall manages to deadpan. “You gave it up on the first date, mate. Why else would I agree to spend time with you again?”

Harry’s face when he turns to look at Niall. He’s almost scared he took it too far for half a second.

But it breaks. And his smile. Niall knows he’s taken it too far, in his heart.

Harry smiles, happy with himself, smug. He raises an eyebrow at Niall before turning back to his golf club and saying, “I guess I should’ve waited then.”

“Nah,” Niall’s confident now. He knows how to do this. He can do this. “I’m not a very patient bloke, might’ve lost interest if ya didn’t give it up.”

“Patience is a virtue, Niall,” says Harry. And it’s just the two of them. In the whole wide world.

“Like I said, not very patient. But you—you should take your own advice. Your form sucks, mate.”

“My snogging form? Never had any complaints before.”

He can do this. He can do this. “Your golfing form, you tit. It’s abysmal.”

Niall steps forward, hovers next to Harry until he turns his body, opens up for him. He can feel the static electricity between them—the way he’s humming with it, the way he thinks Harry might be, too. He can do this. “Here,” he taps Harry’s forearm gently, “lemme show you.”

He slides his arms around Harry’s waist, easy enough. Spreads his legs a little wider, rocks on his heels to get into the correct form, ruts his hips, once, against Harry’s ass. We’re at work, you horny bastard, half of his brain says. I’ve never cared about anything less, the other half shouts.

Harry, it seems, agrees with the other half. He pushes back against Niall’s hips, melts into his embrace, sighs, quietly, when Niall’s hands gently cover his own and guide him into the proper grip. Niall’s chin is leaning on Harry’s shoulder and Harry’s bent over a bit, to get his grip just right. It’s obscene, it would look absolutely obscene to anyone with half a brain cell.

Niall’s never felt better in his entire life.

“Is this better?” Harry breathes out. Niall can feel his breath, washing over their hands where they’re clasped together.

“Much,” Niall says, right into his ear.

Harry turns his head, just so. His eyes are on Niall’s eyes, then on his red cheeks and sunburnt nose, then, lingering, on his lips. He watches as Niall’s tongue presses out between his lips to wet them, and he smiles, that smile that’s just for Niall, before leaning in.

It’s so good. It’s just as good as the other night. They barely go four seconds before Harry’s dropping the club and turning around to face Niall properly, to gather him up in his arms and rest one hand on his arse, squeezing gently over the rough fabric of his stupid boiler suit. Niall’s practically gasping into Harry’s mouth, trying not to make it obvious how much he loves this, how worried he’d been that this would never happen again.

He wants to push Harry over, to press him into the perfectly manicured grass and feel his body, toned and soft all at the same time, against his own. He wants Harry under his clothes, under his body, under his skin, right now. He’s at work. He doesn’t care.

“I don’t,” Harry pulls away from the kiss a few minutes later. He looks wrecked when Niall’s eyes finally focus on him, all wild eyes and red, wet lips, and a heaving chest. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Don’t care,” Niall goes back in. Harry lets him.

“We’ve got,” Harry pulls away again, lets Niall go for his neck, “we’ve got 14 holes left. We should—let’s do this at every single one.”

“You’re a nut job, Styles. That doesn’t make any sense, walk to all fourteen holes when we could just snog right here.”

“We could,” Harry acquiesces, “but think about the scenery.”

And, really, Niall can’t disagree—even when it takes them four hours to get to the ninth hole.

\--

It becomes a thing, then, Harry as Niall’s one o’clock. It starts once a week, every Wednesday, the two of them sneaking in snogs on the course, hands all over, cheeks bright red. But it accelerates quickly from there: it’s twice a week two times in June, and then, by the time they’re halfway through the month it’s every day, Liam booking Harry in for one o’clock each and every morning, Niall and Harry sucking face all afternoon, leaning up against a tree behind the seventh hole.

It’s so perfect, the two of them, that it bleeds over into everything else. Harry joins Niall, Louis, and Liam at La Cantina on Thursdays, drinks margaritas until he’s falling over laughing, until he’s palming Niall’s ass in the bathroom, leaving marks on his neck as they kiss against the brick wall outside. Louis and Liam hang out too, those days when Niall has to be at work and Louis has off. Niall learns that Louis is teaching Liam how to make his own french fries, that Liam’s letting him pitch in while he sits in the sand writing songs. They don’t talk about the rest of it, the other thing, the looming crane over all their heads, and it’s fine, Niall tells himself, because they all know. They all know what’s coming, they all know what has to happen.

But until then. Until it has to happen. Niall feels really, really good like this.

At the end of July, Harry asks Niall out. It’s weird, a little, because they spend every day together, and they’ve seen every inch of each other, and Harry’s leaving soon, but he does it anyway, when he and Niall are trucking Harry’s clubs back to the storage room, the sun winking as it sets behind them. Harry’s wearing an orange shirt today, and it brings out just how tan his skin has gotten, distracts from the blooming purple, blue, green marks Niall’s left on his neck.

“I was thinking,” is how Harry says it, “would you wanna get dinner with me tomorrow night?”

“What, like at La Cantina?” Niall asks. They usually go on Thursdays, but if Harry wants to go on a Saturday, that’s cool with Niall, too.

“No,” Harry takes a deep breath, furrows his brows, carries on, “like, I was thinking we could go to the restaurant? The fancy one.”

“Stella, you mean? Where Louis works?”

“Yeah, I was thinking—okay, I was more than thinking, because I already asked Louis about it and he said he could clear one of the private rooms for us Saturday night so we could go without being spotted by the other guests and I just thought—we’ve been doing this for a while now, and I haven’t taken you out properly, like, other than to the beach.”

“H—” Niall’s not sure where he was planning to go next. His brain is bouncing around inside his head, his lips stumbling as he tries to get out his words. “You don’t have to take me on a date, what we’re doing is—”

“I want to, though,” Harry cuts him off. And he does that, sometimes, cutting other people off, forgetting that life isn’t a business meeting where he has to stand up for himself. He catches himself this time, though, softens his voice and says, “I’m sorry. I want to take you out properly, get all dressed up and wasted at a fancy restaurant with a pretty boy. Do you—does that sound fun?”

“Yes,” Niall lies, all for the smile on Harry’s face. “It sounds amazing.”

\--

Harry says he’ll pick Niall up at seven o’clock. Louis is at work, so he has to get dressed himself, and it’s the perfect recipe for a panic attack, all the running around in his humid apartment trying to keep his hair from frizzing out while deciding which trousers hug his ass best. It would be a funny scene in FRIENDS, maybe, Niall thinks, if it wasn’t making him feel like a walking heart palpitation.

It’s okay, though, when Harry shows up. It always is. Niall opens the door and it’s just—it’s like everything else gets quiet, like his shoulders relax, his heart calms down, his face pulls up into a smile without him knowing. It doesn’t matter, anymore, what he’s wearing, what his hair looks like—anything that isn’t Harry. It just doesn’t matter.

“Hey,” Harry sounds the same way Niall feels. It kicks in his stomach. “You look so handsome.”

Niall looks down at himself, his band t-shit tucked into patterned trousers, his white high-top Converse sneakers, and he feels good, he realises. He feels so fucking good—and he has been for months now. He hasn’t stopped feeling good since this, whatever it is, started.

What’s gonna happen when it goes away?

“Thank you,” Niall says, around the lump in his throat. “So do you.”

And Harry does: tight skinny jeans and a sheer black shirt unbuttoned to his navel, showing off all those tattoos that make Niall’s mouth water. He’s pigeon-toed in his suede boots, his long hair falling onto his shoulders. He’s a work of art. He’s Niall’s work of art.

They walk to Stella hand in hand, fingers intertwined, leaning into each other every so often. Harry’s talking about his fuck-up in the studio with Liam today and it’s funny, has Niall’s eyes prickling with tears of laughter, has his abdomen tightening and loosening with laughter cramps. Harry keeps going, getting wilder and wilder as the story goes on, swinging his free hand in the air, swinging Niall’s hand with his other one where they’re intertwined. Niall goes along for the ride, doing his best to savour every second of it.

They have to go in through the back door, so no one sees them. Niall knows that the celebrities who come to the resort do this all the time, but it’s so different for him—for him, the back door at Stella is a place where he’d sit with Louis on his breaks and smoke a cigarette, talking about home. It’s a place to hide from angry bosses, to bring yourself back down to reality before heading into work. For Harry it’s this thing, this separate entrance that he gets to use because he’s too special for anything else, this physical mark of his celebrity. Niall feels a little weird, the way one of the maître d's comes around to open the back door and let them in.

Harry chats to the maître d’, slipping into Business Mode while Niall watches. His face closes off, his posture improves, his smile stops reaching the corners of his eyes. He pushes his hair back and he says things like “oh, yes, of course,” and “understood, sir, thank you.” Niall doesn’t get to see Harry in work mode that often, but it’s a marked difference, the space between the man Niall knows—Harry, Haz, H—and this man—Harry Styles, International Pop Star, Business Man. It makes Niall’s stomach flip.

They’re tucked into a booth in a back room then, dark lighting and plush seating and a candle between them and it’s a lot, suddenly, the reality of a fancy date.

“I’ve never,” Niall barely realises he’s speaking aloud, “I’ve never been on a date like this before.”

“Really?” Harry lowers his menu where it’s covering his face. “A guy like you? Never been taken out to a fancy place?” He gently kicks Niall’s leg under the table, a warm smile melting his face. He’s back now. H.

“Only had one boyfriend,” Niall carries on. A waiter comes in with waters, and Niall’s thankful they’ve assigned someone other than Louis to their table. “And he and I never—this kinda stuff, no.”

“Why not?” Harry looks genuinely baffled. “You deserve to be taken out on fancy dates like this.”

Niall shrugs, laughs a little to cover up the way his heart is racing. “I dunno, I think there’s always that fear, when you’re with another guy. I’ve taken girls out on dates to nice places, nothing like this though. But with guys it’s always… always keep it inside.”

The sadness that takes over Harry’s face. It almost breaks Niall’s heart. Harry reaches across the table to place one of his hands—big and warm with the anchor tattoo—over Niall’s own. “I hate that you have to feel that way,” he says. “It’s fucked up.”

“‘Tis what it is,” Niall’s looking down at their hands. When he glances up, there’s candlelight flickering in Harry’s green eyes. “Not much I can do.”

They hold it there like that, hands clasped on the table, eyes locked, until the waiter steps inside again and asks if they’d like something to drink. Harry doesn’t jump back, Niall noticies, doesn’t seem bothered that someone else is watching them hold hands like this. He just leans back in his seat comfortably, still holding onto Niall, and orders a bottle of the most expensive red on the menu. Niall nearly chokes.

“Just wait,” Harry says, when the waiter walks away and Niall is still guffawing. “Just wait ‘til you try the Rothschild, Niall. You’ll understand.”

“H, that bottle is $3,000.”

“Yeah, but it’s worth it, trust me.”

“There’s no way a bottle of wine can be worth that much money, mate, you’re just gonna piss it out.”

Harry laughs, and Niall feels good for it. He says, “keep complaining, and I’ll make you pay.”

“You can try,” Niall laughs. “But I literally don’t have $3,000 in my checking account.”

“They’ll arrest you, then,” Harry says with a glint in his eyes, “and I’ll come bail you out.”

“Oh you will, will you? How kind of you.”

“We should abolish cash bail, though,” Harry carries on, thoughtfully. “Can I exchange sexual favors for your release?”

“What, with me? Or the bailiff? I’m not sitting in jail watching you suck the bailiff off, mate. I’d rather stay locked up.”

“Oh,” Harry lowers his voice, leans in a little. “Would you be jealous?”

Niall can feel his dick getting interested. Fast. He laughs loud and shakes his head and aims a kick at Harry’s shin under the table. Across from him, Harry’s stupid smile is a perfect mirror of his own.

“What do you want to eat?” Niall asks instead. “I can’t decide.”

“I dunno,” Harry glances back down at the menu between them. “Was torn between the red wine short ribs and the oysters. I think I’m leaning more toward the oysters, though.”

Niall thinks he’s joking for a second. “Me too,” he says. “I can’t pick, but I’m leaning toward the ribs.”

“Really?” Harry’s delighted when he looks back up at Niall. “Wanna go splitsville? You get the ribs, I’ll get the oysters, and we can share. They’ll both pair well with the Rothschild, I think. And then maybe for dessert we can get something chocolatey? Does that sound good, love?”

Niall’s heart is going a million miles in his chest. He doesn’t care. “Yeah,” he squeezes Harry’s hand. “Sounds perfect.”  
—

At the beginning of August, Harry invites Niall and Louis over. They haven’t been to the villa yet because Liam and Harry are using it mostly as a studio, and they don’t want to put the equipment in danger. But they’ve started to pack all that up, and Niall has a sneaking suspicion that Harry wants to show him his bedroom.

They’re at the front door of Harry and Liam’s villa five fashionable minutes late, Louis smoking the dregs of the cigarette he’d started on the walk over, Niall clutching a bottle of red wine in shaking hands. It hits him as he’s pressing the doorbell that he’s never actually been inside one of these villas before, despite looking at them every single day for the past two years. There’s so much he doesn’t know, suddenly, and it’s sending his brain into a tailspin—what do the inside of these villas look like? What does Harry expect from tonight? Will he still be into him? Did he overdress? What if Harry isn’t even here? What if something happens but Louis and Liam don’t get the hint? What—

“Hiiiiiiya,” the door swings open and Niall’s heart stops, splutters, restarts in his chest. Who knew Harry Styles answered his own front door? “Oooooh, wine.”

Niall thinks Louis will speak first and rescue him, but he doesn't. There’s an awkward gap of time, too long, before Niall clears his throat and says, “It’s no Rotshchild, but I thought we could get started with it.”

“Brilliant, you are,” Harry smiles at him, bright, dimples digging into his cheeks, and Niall relaxes.

Inside, Niall notices three things: first, that the air conditioning is blasting. Second, that the villa has surround sound speakers, and someone’s blasting The Eagles. Third, that these villas are even posher than he’d imagined them to be. Next to him, Louis lets out a low whistle. It echoes, bouncing off the impossibly high ceilings of the entryway.

They follow Harry through the entryway and into an open plan kitchen cum living room situation. The living room has one of those conversation pits—kind of like the one in Help! that he’d fallen in love with as a kid—and Liam is reclined across one of the couches, flicking through his phone.

“Louis! Nialler!” He tosses his phone across the couch, uninterested in where it lands, not bothered that it could bounce off the couch and smash on the floor.

“This place is insane,” says Louis, hopping down into the conversation pit. “I had no idea.”

“You’ve never been inside one of the villas before?” Liam asks. “Aren’t you here all the time?”

“Yeah, working, though. S’not like I spend a lot of time anywhere but the restaurant or with you…”

Liam and Louis kick off, then, like old friends reunited, and Niall feels a swell of happiness in his chest. Chest warm, he turns to Harry, who’s busying himself behind the bar area, long hair loose tonight, like a curtain across his face.

“Soulmates, the two of ‘em,” Niall says. He leans forward, elbows on the bar, heart in his throat.

Harry glances up and Niall’s chest seizes. He’s so fucking gorgeous, tonight, always, green eyes and a sharp jawbone and soft cheeks, a growing smile and deepening dimples and fuck, fuck, Niall can’t think straight, can’t see straight, thanks God he isn’t Straight, because it’s allowing him to have this.

“I know,” Harry says, low, slow, like he’s got no idea of the effect he has on Niall. “I think they’re meant to be best friends.”

“Looks like I’ll be replaced,” Niall shrugs, and it’s only half a joke.

Harry’s eyes widen, his mouth makes a small little ‘o’, and he shakes his head. “No way, there’s no way you could be replaced. You’re so—Niall.”

The way it hits Niall, it’s like a punch to the stomach. He has to take a second to remind himself who Harry is—remind himself what he’s done. He shakes his head, shakes the thoughts away, says, “was only joking,” and musters up his best smile. “What are we drinking?”

“Tequila,” Harry flashes a different smile at Niall now, one that makes his heart thump heavily in his chest. “Can make you a marg, or mix it with whatever you want.”

“Tequila?” The chat is coming out easy for Niall, in a way it usually doesn’t when he’s facing someone he’s attracted to. “Trying to get me fucked up, are you?”

Harry raises one eyebrow, dimpled smile crowding Niall’s vision. He says nothing, just busies himself mixing a drink, and Niall leans back against one of the barstools to watch the way his forearms flex as he shakes and pours, the way his fingers, delicate but stumbly in their own way, slice a lime into quarters and drop one in the glass. He makes two drinks like that, like a show for Niall, and then slides one across the bar.

“My speciality,” he says, eyes locked on Niall’s.

“It’s coke and tequila and a lime, mate. Just watched you make it.”

“I like to keep it simple,” Harry holds his own drink up, meeting Niall in the middle. They clink their glasses, holding eye contact as Harry brings his glass to his mouth, purses his lips around the straw, and sucks.

Niall does his best not to choke.

“It’s good,” he says, swallowing—and it is, like. It’s just tequila and coke and lime, yeah, but something about it—he’s such an idiot.

“Told you it was my speciality,” Harry beams.

“You’re not gonna make anything for those two?” Niall nods his head backwards toward Louis and Liam. He can hear them laughing, but he won’t, can’t, tear his eyes away from Harry.

“The happy couple? They can make their own drinks. I’m happy here with you.”

Niall’s burning up. This, he thinks, must be how Harry does it, how he charms the whole world into his pocket, how he seduces everyone into his bed no matter who they’re dating, who they’re married to. It’s so transparent, so blatant, so easy—and Niall’s happy to fall right into it.

What’s the danger of it, he asks himself again, if he knows there’s an expiration date? How bad could it be?

He lets himself fall.

—

It takes three drinks before Niall and Harry disappear, skin electric, into his bedroom. Louis and Liam are blasting music and though they’ve moved on from The Eagles they’re still singing along too loud, dancing on the coffee table and shouting to each other over the roar of Keith Richards’ guitar playing. Niall, straddling Harry on the massive bed in his room down the hall, thinks it’s as much a courtesy to them as it is fun.

Harry’s hands are all over him, hot and heavy and strong, and his lips taste like coke and tequila and Niall’s head is spinning from everything, all of it, the liquor and the sugar and the music and Harry, the way he keeps pulling back to speak, to mumble “fuck” under his breath when Niall grinds down on him, to urge him on, “yes, so good, so fucking—fuck, Niall,” as he sucks bruises into his neck and gets a hand down his trousers. Niall’s chest is heavy, like he could suffocate, like he can’t get Harry close enough, deep enough, heavy enough. He wants him all over him, all the time, wants to die underneath Harry Styles if it’ll feel like this.

He knows he’s not the only one.

—

Harry’s heavy and sticky on top of Niall when they finish, warm, smooth skin pressing into Niall’s and it’s suffocating, a little claustrophobic, but Niall’s not about to say anything, not right now. He can barely get a breath in for how overwhelmed, how good, he feels, Harry on top of him, the muffled sounds of Louis and Liam laughing in the living room covered up by Harry’s moans replaying themselves, over and over, in his ears. He knows this won’t last for long, can’t bring himself to push Harry off the way he would anyone else.

It’s like Harry knows, though. He catches his breath a little and then presses a sloppy kiss to Niall’s forehead before rolling gently off him as Niall pulls out. He doesn’t break contact though—slings a tattooed arm over Niall’s stomach once he’s curled up at his side, doing his best to avoid smearing the mess any more than he already has.

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry says, then, his voice thick with it, raw. Niall’s choking on it—on everything. “I’m glad you decided to come over tonight.”

Niall snorts out a laugh before he can stop himself. “Did ya think I wouldn’t?”

“Wasn’t sure,” Harry’s eyes are boring into the side of Niall’s face. Niall keeps staring up at the ceiling, afraid of what his heart will do if he looks Harry in the eyes. “Honestly, I’m always worried you might not want to see me anymore.”

“Don’t be daft,” Niall swallows thickly, eyes trained on the dark light fixture in the middle of the room. “Why the hell wouldn’t I want to?”

Harry’s quiet enough for a minute that Niall can hear Louis’ laugh from the living room. He feels a pang of something in his chest, until Harry carries on: “Most people… after the first time or two… they think they know. About me, and who I am, and what I want. People don’t usually come back. And I—I really like you, and I want you to come back. To keep coming back.”

And, no, Niall’s never held an explosive device that was seconds away from detonation before, but he imagines it feels a little something like this.

‘You can’t just,” Niall takes a deep breath, not sure why this is where he’s going with the conversation, “you can’t just say that, Harry. You can’t—you’re not staying here.”

“I would,” Harry says. “If I could.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Niall says it as much for himself.

“I would,” Harry repeats, “if I wasn’t so scared.”

“What,” Niall can’t stop himself, thinks maybe it’s the post-coital endorphins, or the alcohol, or the knowledge that this will never last, emboldening him, “does Harry Styles have to be afraid of? You can bag anyone, no matter what. I’m no one.”

“You’re not no one,” Harry lifts his head up a little bit, but Niall still doesn’t turn to look at him. “And I can’t bag anyone no matter what.”

“I’m a failure to launch with a wonky knee and no prospects who works at an exploitative Bahamian resort, waiting on rich old white dudes all day. I’ve been a puddle at your feet since the moment we met, even though you were kind of a dick to me then. You’ve been with models, actresses, musicians, people’s wives—I’m no one, and we both know it. You don’t have to, like, lie to me and say you like me; I know what this is.”

“Oh,” Harry exhales, low and long. Niall hears him swallow, then, “there it is.”

It’s the alcohol. It must be. Anxiety courses through Niall’s veins like a rushing landslide and he can’t stop himself, can’t think better, just keeps going. “Yeah,” he says, turning to face Harry, finally. “There it fucking is.”

“You don’t know the truth, Niall.” Harry says it softly, preciously. Niall feels sick, suddenly.

“What the fuck could the truth possibly be? How could it be better? There are—there’s photo evidence.”

“Of what?” It’s weird, the way Harry’s not raising his voice, not matching Niall’s energy level. He’s low, balanced, sure, as he carries on, “what is there photo evidence of?”

“Of you! And her! Leaving—leaving—“

“Leaving a restaurant, yeah. That’s it though, Niall. Just us leaving a restaurant.”

He’s right. Niall knows he’s right. He’d seen all the pictures, read the articles, dug up the blinds—that’s all there is to it, a picture of Harry and Ameena leaving a restaurant together. But he can’t stop. He’s got something beautiful in his hands and he has to squeeze and squeeze until it cracks like an egg, sharp shell and messy yolk of his heart oozing through his fingers, onto the messed up bed beneath them. He keeps going.

“Rumors like that don’t just come out of nowhere, Harry.”

“No, you’re right, but I can tell you exactly where—”

“Save it,” Niall sits up, suddenly. “Acting like I give a shit. This is—” he gestures to them, their naked bodies still tangled together in bed, Harry’s smooth skin against his roughness, “nothing. We’re just fucking. You’ll be gone sooner rather than later anyway and so will I and I don’t even know why—why I’m doing this. This is—we’re wasting each other’s time. And God knows your time is worth more than mine.”

“Wait, Niall, one—”

“Stop,” Niall’s got one leg out of the bed, Harry leaning over to pull him back, his hand frozen in mid-air, as though he realized what he was about to do and what it would mean. “This is stupid. I should—I’ve got work in the morning, I have to be on the course early. I…” he starts gathering stuff up in lieu of finishing the sentence, finding his boxers buried under Harry’s, his jeans in a pile at the foot of the bed, his t-shirt near the door, a reminder of the way Harry could barely wait for Niall to shut it before taking his clothes off. It’s humiliating and stupid, picking his shit up while he’s naked and soft, Harry sitting up in bed watching him. His eyes are soft and a little sad and his hair is stringy with sweat, sticking to his forehead, to his neck. Niall’s freezing cold.

Niall barely manages to keep from losing his balance as he tugs on his boxers and then his jeans. He looks everywhere but Harry until he’s at the door and only then does he turn back around once, allowing himself a few seconds to memorize the sight of Harry Styles, his Harry Styles, naked and beautiful in bed, his warm skin and the ghosts of the faces he made just for Niall, just so Niall could see how good he made him feel. He gives himself ten seconds, more time than most fans get at meet and greet sessions he thinks, before opening the door and letting himself out.

Harry doesn’t yell after him.

####


	3. we had a summer fling

3.

Niall makes it two weeks without seeing Harry once. He’s fine, really—completely, totally, 100 percent fine. Maybe he’s a living on autopilot, sure, but he’s been that way for a while now.

Really, he’s fine—a little snippy at Louis, sometimes, but that’s to be expected; they live in such close quarters, after all. He’s been having trouble sleeping, too, staring up at the ceiling at night with Harry dancing around in his brain, but that’s nothing new, nothing to be concerned about. He’s cried a few times, in the shower mostly, alone and terrified of something that he can’t quite put his finger on, but that’s normal—everyone cries sometimes. He feels empty, alone, apathetic—but it’s fine, really. He’ll snap back into it soon enough. And if not, he’ll go home.

He makes it through two weeks of August before everything goes to shit.

It’s stupid o’clock in the morning, so early that Niall’s eyes aren’t even fully open yet, despite the fact that he’s dressed and on the course, sitting in a golf cart, staring out at the horizion. It’s hot already, humidity sticking to him, and Niall can’t think about anything other than going home. He’s thinking of chilly mornings and sunny afternoons, of his mother’s cozy living room and the twin-sized bed in the guest room at his dad’s. Of a Sunday roast by a fireplace in the local, and meeting his mates for pints after work, cheeks red as they come in from the cold. He feels empty down to his toes, like staring out at nothing in particular is all he can manage, like he might just stay here, staring at the horizon, until he disintegrates or dies or lets Nature take her hold. It would be better, at least, than feeling nothing for the rest of forever; than feeling the way he’s been feeling lately.

Someone’s talking to him.

They’re not stopping.

It takes all the effort he has, tearing his eyes away from the sky and following the smooth, slow voice calling to him. It fits in so perfectly with his daydream, that voice, low and gentle and—Harry.

Niall almost jumps. He almost puts his foot on the gas pedal of the golf cart and floors it. He almost runs away.

He doesn’t.

“Louis told me you’d be out here,” is what Harry says when Niall makes eye contact with him, finally. “I wanted to talk to you.”

For the first time in a long time, Niall feels something kick in his stomach. He pushes his shoulders back, takes a deep breath. “What?”

“I’m leaving next week,” says Harry.

“Okay,” says Niall, even though he doesn't feel okay.

“I don’t want to, erm, I don’t want to leave without… I don’t want to leave without trying, like. Without telling you how I feel—without telling you the truth.”

Niall can’t speak. He’s thinking too much, he can’t land on one idea. Harry understands, it seems. He keeps going.

“Can I sit down next to you? And talk? You don’t have to, like, say anything or do anything. I’m not expecting anything from you. But I’d like it if you listened.”

Niall manages a nod, and Harry climbs into the golf cart surprisingly gracefully. His legs are too long, they’re all tangled up with one another, and he smooths his hair back, even though it’s already in a bun, before he starts talking.

“Louis told me to bring you a bagel,” Harry laughs, “said you’d be more willing to listen to me if I had food. But I didn’t—I’m not trying to, like, bribe you?”

“You’ve been talking to Louis?” Is what Niall settles on saying. He’s still staring out at the horizon.

“Well, I’ve been talking to Liam, obviously, and Liam’s been talking to Louis. Liam’s birthday is at the end of the month, that’s why I wanted to—we were thinking of having a little birthday gathering for Liam before we leave. I wanted to invite you.”

“You came out here at five in the morning to invite me to a birthday party?” Niall scoffs. “We’re not friends, Harry. We haven’t spoken in weeks. We fucked a few times—that was it.”

“I thought,” Harry carries on, undeterred, “I thought we were friends. I thought we were more than just fucking. Before—before you left.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Harry.”

“‘M not lying. When we first—that first night, on the beach—you asked me why I was here. Why Liam and I came here? You told me everything and then I told you I was on a writing trip. You remember that, right?”

“Yes.”

“I was—I mean, I wasn’t lying, I am on a writing trip. But I didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

“Fucking clearly,” Niall’s getting angry now, feels it bubbling over in his stomach. It’s better than apathy, better than being a ghost. But it isn’t good. “You think I’m an idiot, Harry? Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No,” Harry doesn’t rush. “I knew you knew I was keeping something from you. And I was hoping to—God, Niall. I couldn’t stop thinking about you from that first night out here, playing golf. I know I was kind of a dick to you then—I wasn’t sure yet. I wasn’t sure if you knew about me or what you knew about me or if you wanted… fuck. But after we left I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and when I ran into you at the bistro I knew I had to do something, but I chickened out, so I bought your food without saying anything. And then in the clubhouse, during the storm—that day was the best I’ve had in years, Niall.”

“H—”

“Liam wouldn’t let me live it down when I told him the next morning. And he was so mad at me for not getting your number. He was all—” here, Harry puts on an accent that sounds remarkably like Liam’s. Enough, at least, to make Niall laugh for the first time in what feels like a hundred years. “—he was all, Harry, I haven’t seen you like this in years, you can’t just let him get away, you’ve got to try to see him again, mate, you gotta take initiative…” Harry reverts back to his own voice with ease, “When he ran into you and Louis on the beach he took the initiative for me, thank God. But I was still too scared—I didn’t know what to say. I’d be—God, I’d be such a sad sack without Liam. I mean, I’m a sad sack anyway, but Liam at least…. I’m getting off track, I’m sorry.”

Niall’s throat is too dry, he can’t even swallow. “Harry,” he manages, and then, “why are you doing this? We had a summer fling, we don’t have to drag it out.”

“Was it,” Harry clears his throat, “did you want just to be a summer fling? Is that all it was to you?”

It’s a trick question. Niall knows that. “What I wanted and what it was are two different things, Harry.”

“No—if you want the same thing as me, then, no, they’re not.”

Niall doesn’t say anything, so Harry carries on: “I want you to know why I’m here, and that’ll—it’ll answer your questions about everything else, too, I think. Because I didn’t. I didn’t sleep with Ameena and I can’t just bag anyone I want and I wasn’t looking at what you and I did as a summer fling. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the night we met, and if I’m going away forever now then at least I want to go away knowing that I gave it—you—my best shot. Is that okay?”

“You didn’t sleep with Ameena?” Niall feels like he’s been hit upside the head. Doesn’t he have to get to work soon?

“Of course I didn’t sleep with Ameena, she’s married,” Harry starts bouncing his leg between them, anxious, Niall realises, for the first time. The first time he’s seen at least. “It was all just a story, it was—she and I went out to dinner, just two friends going out to dinner, and the restaurant tipped off the paps and they got the pictures and someone made up that story. And Kieran, my old manager, he thought it would probably be a good thing, drum up some controversy, get people talking, so he didn’t deny it. Had me lean into it. That was—I knew that was the last straw with him.”

Niall can’t manage his reactions. “What?” He asks, probably a little too loudly. Harry flinches, but he doesn’t leave.

“I know. Like I said, that was the last straw. But Kieran had been doing that kind of stuff for a while. He had this theory, this idea, that any press was good press. He thought the bad boy image was the best one for me, so we leaned into that. The—I don’t know how much you know? But the stories—the trashed hotel rooms and the cheating and the spitting and the bad attitude—they were all just that, stories. I’m actually really, like, boring? I mean the models, some of them, yeah, and the parties, some of them, yeah, but I never—I just went and got drunk and went home, like any normal guy my age. I never smashed windows or TVs or anything like that. Kieran just thought it would make people care about me.”

“It did,” Niall hears himself say.

Harry nods. “It did. For a while, at least. But people started to get reluctant about booking me for things because of my reputation. And I started to get bored of it. I wanted—I talked to Kieran about it a few times, about changing the angle. But he didn’t want to. Then everything happened with Ameena, and that was it for me. I fired him. Or, I guess, I quit? It depends on how you look at it.”

“What did you do?” Niall’s captivated, staring at Harry now. He watches as Harry clenches his jaw before carrying on.

“I cut ties with Kieran. Liam—he’d been on my team for a while, had been Kieran’s intern and then got hired when he graduated. I trust him, and he’s my age, and we’re mates—he was practically my only friend on tour, the only person my age. So when I left, he asked if he could come with me. And we started over, just me and Liam.”

“Harry…”

“Liam and I quit in March. The label gave us to the end of the year to come up with an album good enough to prove I’m worth not dropping. And I think—I think it’s going well. My writing is so different now, I feel like I have a lot more space—in my head, and in the world, if that makes sense. That’s why we came here, Liam and I. To get some space and write without interruption, without the media. I haven’t even—I haven’t read what people are saying about me since we’ve been here. It’s so different. I feel… I feel really good here. And I feel extra good when I’m with you. And… yeah. I think that’s everything. I’m sorry.”

Harry waits a few seconds, lets his confession sit between them, clinging to the humid morning air. When Niall doesn’t say anything, he exhales, nods once, and steps out of the golf cart.

It’s the way the cart rocks when Harry shifts his weight that brings Nial back to reality.

“Harry,” he’s not sure how many times he’s said that already this morning. “I’m sorry.”

Harry looks like a daydream, standing in front of Niall with the sun rising behind him, early morning light bringing out the honey golden strands in his hair. His cheekbones are high and sharp and the rest of him is soft, the warm, tanned thighs peeking out from under his tiny shorts, the small patch of tummy Niall sees when he raises his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Niall’s eyes catch on the laurels and he feels his whole body rush with it—he’s been there, Niall: his hands, his lips, his tongue, his come. He’s been there.

He doesn’t want it to be just once.

“I should’ve given you more of a chance,” says Niall. “I’m—I was scared, too.”

“I know,” says Harry. “And that’s okay.”

“It’s not okay that I treated you like that. I—fuck’s sake, Harry, come over here, will you? I couldn’t stop thinking about you either.”

The way Harry’s face lights up—it’s like Niall’s seeing home, for the first time in years. It’s like walking into the local, when it’s freezing cold out, and hearing all your mates shout your name, telling you they’ve got a pint of your favorite waiting. It’s like when he comes home after a long, shitty day and Louis has made peri peri chicken, as close to Nando’s as they can get. It’s like when his nephew said his name for the first time. It’s like all of that, a thousand times over. Like Niall’s heart is warm and floating and his chest is going to cave in with how much he feels. It’s like—it’s like he never wants to let it go.

“Really?” Harry’s in front of him now, and Niall climbs out of the golf cart so they’re toe to toe, face to face, except for the three or four inches Harry has on him.

“Really,” says Niall. “I was fucking miserable.”

“Me too,” Harry brushes his nose against Niall’s, “Liam’s getting so sick of me.”

“And Louis of me,” Niall breathes out a little laugh, stomach flipping over when Harry matches his smile. “I’m a shite best friend when I’m heartbroken.”

“Well,” Harry cups the side of Niall’s face, tilts his head just so. “It’s a good thing that won’t be a problem anymore.”

####


	4. epilogue;

“Is it really a birthday party,” Louis licks the side of his rolling paper, elbows on his knees in the conversation pit, “if it’s only the four of us?”

“All my mates are accounted for,” Liam smiles, “right here. Why would I want other people?”

Niall watches Louis bite back a smile as he reaches forward for the grinder. He feels warm all through the pit of his stomach, cozied into Harry’s side on the couch. Harry’s got an arm slung over Niall’s shoulders and his ankle resting on his knee, his free hand clutching a tequila coke, his eyes warm, soft, relaxed. He could stay like this forever, Niall—would, if he had any say in it. Liam and Harry are going home tomorrow, back to London, but he and Louis won’t be far behind them. He’s putting in his two weeks notice on Monday.

It was Harry’s idea, Liam’s planning, Louis’ encouragement, Niall’s blind bravery. Harry’s got plenty of studio execs up his sleeve, plenty of big shots in fancy suits who’ll be more than happy to give Niall a job if he so much as asks—and he has. And there’s Liam’s childhood best friend, who moved to London a few years ago, who opened up a trendy Italian restaurant in Spitalfields and is desperate for a new chef. And there’s Niall’s family, desperate for him to move closer to home, Louis’ sister, who’s already started FaceTiming him from open, two-bedroom flats she thinks he and Niall could move into, Harry’s cat, Evie, who lives with his sister Gemma right now but isn’t getting along well with her cat Olivia, who could do with a new home, with Niall and Louis, who won’t leave her alone and go on tour. And, at the very end of it all, bright and shiny and as far away as Orion, is the fact that Harry’s short one guitarist, whenever he decides to go back on tour.

It’s too good. It’s too perfect. It’s right. It’s very much real.

Harry’s so warm, so soft, against Niall’s side. Niall curls up next to him like a cat, pliant and happy. Harry drags a hand through his hair, says, “one thing I’m gonna miss is this conversation pit. It’s kind of brilliant.”

Niall hums, “the first time I saw it, it reminded me of Help!”

“Me too!” Niall looks up, Harry’s beaming down at him. “The Beatles movie, right?! I used to watch it all the time as a kid. I had such a crush on Paul, but I don’t think I understood.”

A laugh bubbles out of Niall’s chest. “Me too. I think he was my first real crush.”

“That’s disgusting,” Louis pipes up from where he’s taking a lighter to the end of his joint, finally. It takes him so long to roll, but Niall’s too happy to take the piss out of him for it this time. “The two of you, being soulmates and shit. Disgusting.”

“Ah, Louis,” Harry cards his hand through Niall’s hair again, scritching at his scalp. “You’ll find your Niall someday.”

Louis chokes on the smoke in his mouth, and Liam jumps to clap his back, however unhelpfully. Harry giggles into Niall’s hair, kissing him with every laugh. They’ve a long night ahead of them, still—Harry hasn’t packed yet and he leaves for the airport at 6am and Niall promised he’d help, but it’s okay, wasting time right now, because if Harry forgets anything Niall can just take to him it in a few weeks, can just hand it off when they reunite. And they can go from there, Niall thinks, settling deeper into the couch, deeper into Harry’s side.

They can go from there, but right now it’s this: just him, his best friends, his Harry, and the Universe.

And it’s good. It’s right. It’s real.

####

**Author's Note:**

> I say this every time, but this fic would not be anywhere near the finished product it is now without the help and guidance of my sweet friend Sarah, narrymybed. Her help was so influential that I figured it's only fair of me to add her as a co-creator this time around; although she didn't do any of the physical writing, Sarah helped me brainstorm this idea in the first place, helped me work through points where I felt stuck, and made some last minute suggestions that changed—and improved—everything about this fic. thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou, sarah. We make such a good team, and I'm so lucky to know you. 
> 
> In addition, this fic would be nothing without the help, support, and love of my beloved Harry Styles Hate Club. Meike, Natalie, and Lillie, thank you for reading this long ass fic over and over for me, thank you for hyping me up, thank you for your help and ideas and guidance, thank you for your friendship, and thank you for sharing your own work with me as well. ily all so much. 
> 
> Finally, thank you to you for reading this! It means so much to me that I don't really know how to express it. Thank you thank you thank you thank you and I love you <3 This is my first attempt at a more long form fic, as well as my first attempt at an AU that isn't uni, so I hope it's alright, and I hope you enjoy it! If you want to talk about this, or narry, or literally anything else, you can find me [on tumblr here.](http://rainbownialls.tumblr.com/tagged/x)
> 
> Thank youuuuuuuuu!


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